Youth by Leo Tolstoy

Youth-Rewritten for the 21^st century

 

By Vidur Conrad Moitra

Despite the confusion of ideas raging in my head, I was at least young, innocent, and free that summer—consequently almost happy.

Sometimes I would rise quite early in the morning, for I slept on the open verandah, and the bright, horizontal beams of the morning sun would wake me up. Dressing myself quickly I would tuck a towel and my Tablet, which would under my arm, and go towards the bathroom with wallpaper that patterns of birch trees on it.

My tablet worked as my electronic book-reader, with its 12 uploaded novels in English, and also my record player with the ability to play 3 days of music if left undisturbed and connected to its power source.

Next, I would stretch myself on the grass in the garden outside and tune out, turning my eyes from time to time to look at the surface of the swimming pool where it showed greenish-blue in the shade of the trees, and at the ripples caused by the first morning breeze, at the drying off-green grass on the surrounding bank, and the bright red-sheen of sunshine as it struck lower down at the walls of the complex which ranged in ranks one behind the other. When, however, the sky was overcast with grey clouds of morning and I felt chilly after bathing, I would leave the complex and start walking at length through the urbanized forest that was my wild trail in my wet boots dripping with fresh dew.

All the while my head would be filled with vivid dreams concerning the heroes of my last-read novel, set to a classic-rock tune that was pounding through my skull on the end of my headphones, and I would keep picturing to myself some leader of an army or some statesman or marvelously strong man or devoted lover or another, and looking round me in, a nervous expectation that I should suddenly descry HER somewhere near me, in a meadow or behind a tree.

Yet, whenever these rambles led me near other city-folk engaged at their morning work, all my ignoring of the existence of the "common people" did not prevent me from experiencing an involuntary, overpowering sensation of awkwardness; so that I always tried to avoid their seeing me.

When the heat of the day had increased, it was not infrequently my habit—if the ladies that were my sister’s company had not come outside to the pool, to go to the supermarket to pick up some food and beverage and stuff.

 Indeed this was the occupation that furnished me one of my greatest pleasures.

Let any one go into one of these symbols of the civilized future world and they will find themselves mesmerized as one dives into the midst of varied goodies that are the fruits of the capitalist world.

Above will be seen the Omni-present glow of ceiling lights, and all around the bright colors of billboards and shops, as they shine mingled together in a tangle of profusion. At one’s feet springs the dark-edged tiles, which fall into a repeating endless pattern that leads the devotee through his temple of limitless, manufactured articles with their luxuriant masses, all look lustrous as bone in the artificial lighting that they are displayed in.

At every step one's movements and one hears the fussy rumbling of escalators and the beating of soft music, fluttering against the marble columns, and the sound of the crowd's footsteps that surrounds the cacophony of blaring sounds.

One sees the staff of the mall, garbed in the bright-yellow shirts and dull grey pants as they walk along their paths humming their eternal singsongs to themselves.

One goes on stripping attractive articles from their square white pedestals atop shelves, and cramming them into the mouth of one’s shopping cart.

At length, some rubbish, which keeps running in one's head, and one's carrying arms, one comes to the conclusion that the load of the cart in its tangle of colors may be no longer desirable to the environment, before the continuing naught but a few minutes later, to strip of one or two of the finer commodities of life (tasty dip and Lays Baked potato chips) and add them to the loot that will last the till the oncoming sunset.

Returning home at eleven o'clock, when the rigors of the urban lifestyle already had most in the middle of their stressful occupations, I would retreat to the drawing room.

Near the first window, with its plastic curtains lowered to exclude the sunlight, Maya, the dog was seated, shaking her head in an irritable manner, and constantly shifting from spot to spot to avoid the sunshine at interval’s it darted from her somewhere and laid a streak on her hand or face.

Seated on a settee, Kareena would be knitting or reading aloud as from time to time she gave her white sleeves (looking almost transparent in the sunshine) an impatient shake, or tossed her head with a frown to drive away some fly which had settled upon her thick auburn hair and was now buzzing in its tangles.

Lara would either be walking up and down the room (her hands clasped behind her) until the moment should arrive when a movement would be made towards the garden, or playing some piece of which every note had long been familiar to me.

For my own part, I would sit down somewhere, and listen to the music or the reading until such time as I myself should have an opportunity of watching the television or surfing the Internet, connecting to the world of social human beings.

After luncheon I would condescend to take the girls out driving around to new locations in the city and these excursions of ours—in which I often took my companions through unaccustomed spots and dells— were very pleasant.

Indeed, on some of these occasions I grew quite boyish and rash on the roads, as high speed and sharp blind corners were my real fuel and the girls would praise my daring, and pretend that I was their protector.

In the evening, if we had no guests with us, a drink of whiskey followed by a sit-down with Papa and then I would stretch myself on my usual sofa, and talk and communicate on my Blackberry, as I heard the rants on the phone of Kareena or Lara.

At other times, if I was alone in the drawing-room and Lara was performing some old-time air, I would find myself with my PlayStation, in the virtual reality of some soldier pursuing secret missions which required several ‘Re-Try’s that often spanned several hours if not days.

Next, as I listened to the creaking of gates and the voices of the women working in the house, I would suddenly bethink of Natalia and Mamma and Karl and become momentarily sad. Just a few days before, my spirit was so much fuller of life and hope that such reminiscences only touched me in passing and soon fled away again.

After supper and (sometimes) a night stroll with some one in the garden (for I was afraid to walk down the dark avenues by myself), I would repair to my solitary sleeping-place on the verandah—a proceeding which, despite the countless mosquitos which always devoured me, afforded me the greatest pleasure.